Book V, Chapter II. The Ampitheatre.

NYDIA, assured by the account of Sosia, on his return home, and
satisfied that her letter was in the hands of Sallust, gave herself up
once more to hope. Sallust would surely lose no time in seeking the
praetor—in coming to the house of the Egyptian—in releasing her—in
breaking the prison of Calenus. That very night Glaucus would be free.
Alas! the night passed—the dawn broke; she heard nothing but the
hurried footsteps of the slaves along the hall and peristyle, and their
voices in preparation for the show. By-and-by, the commanding voice of
Arbaces broke on her ear—a flourish of music rung out cheerily: the
long procession were sweeping to the amphitheatre to glut their eyes on
the death-pangs of the Athenian!

The procession of Arbaces moved along slowly, and with much solemnity
till now, arriving at the place where it was necessary for such as came
in litters or chariots to alight, Arbaces descended from his vehicle,
and proceeded to the entrance by which the more distinguished spectators
were admitted. His slaves, mingling with the humbler crowd, were
stationed by officers who received their tickets (not much unlike our
modern Opera ones), in places in the popularia (the seats apportioned to
the vulgar). And now, from the spot where Arbaces sat, his eyes scanned
the mighty and impatient crowd that filled the stupendous theatre.

The Amphtheater at Pompeii. Click on thumbnail for larger image.

On the upper tier (but apart from the male spectators) sat women, their
gay dresses resembling some gaudy flower-bed; it is needless to add that
they were the most talkative part of the assembly; and many were the
looks directed up to them, especially from the benches appropriated to
the young and the unmarried men. On the lower seats round the arena sat
the more high-born and wealthy visitors—the magistrates and those of
senatorial or equestrian dignity; the passages which, by corridors at
the right and left, gave access to these seats, at either end of the
oval arena, were also the entrances for the combatants. Strong palings
at these passages prevented any unwelcome eccentricity in the movements
of the beasts, and confined them to their appointed prey. Around the
parapet which was raised above the arena, and from which the seats
gradually rose, were gladiatorial inscriptions, and paintings wrought in
fresco, typical of the entertainments for which the place was designed.
Throughout the whole building wound invisible pipes, from which, as the
day advanced, cooling and fragrant showers were to be sprinkled over the
spectators. The officers of the amphitheatre were still employed in the
task of fixing the vast awning (or velaria) which covered the whole, and
which luxurious invention the Campanians arrogated to themselves: it was
woven of the whitest Apulian wool, and variegated with broad stripes of
crimson. Owing either to some inexperience on the part of the workmen,
or to some defect in the machinery, the awning, however, was not
arranged that day so happily as usual; indeed, from the immense space of
the circumference, the task was always one of great difficulty and
art—so much so, that it could seldom be adventured in rough or windy
weather. But the present day was so remarkably still that there seemed
to the spectators no excuse for the awkwardness of the artificers; and
when a large gap in the back of the awning was still visible, from the
obstinate refusal of one part of the velaria to ally itself with the
rest, the murmurs of discontent were loud and general.

The aedile Pansa, at whose expense the exhibition was given, looked
particularly annoyed at the defect, and, vowed bitter vengeance on the
head of the chief officer of the show, who, fretting, puffing,
perspiring, busied himself in idle orders and unavailing threats.

The hubbub ceased suddenly—the operators desisted—the crowd were
stilled—the gap was forgotten—for now, with a loud and warlike
flourish of trumpets, the gladiators, marshalled in ceremonious
procession, entered the arena. They swept round the oval space very
slowly and deliberately, in order to give the spectators full leisure to
admire their stern serenity of feature—their brawny limbs and various
arms, as well as to form such wagers as the excitement of the moment
might suggest.

'Oh!' cried the widow Fulvia to the wife of Pansa, as they leaned down
from their lofty bench, 'do you see that gigantic gladiator? how drolly
he is dressed!'

'Yes,' said the aedile's wife, with complacent importance, for she knew
all the names and qualities of each combatant; 'he is a retiarius or
netter; he is armed only, you see, with a three-pronged spear like a
trident, and a net; he wears no armor, only the fillet and the tunic.
He is a mighty man, and is to fight with Sporus, yon thick-set
gladiator, with the round shield and drawn sword, but without body
armor; he has not his helmet on now, in order that you may see his
face—how fearless it is!—by-and-by he will fight with his vizor down.'

'But surely a net and a spear are poor arms against a shield and sword?'

'That shows how innocent you are, my dear Fulvia; the retiarius has
generally the best of it.'

'But who is yon handsome gladiator, nearly naked—is it not quite
improper? By Venus! but his limbs are beautifully shaped!'

'It is Lydon, a young untried man! he has the rashness to fight yon
other gladiator similarly dressed, or rather undressed—Tetraides. They
fight first in the Greek fashion, with the cestus; afterwards they put
on armor, and try sword and shield.'

'He is a proper man, this Lydon; and the women, I am sure, are on his
side.'

'So are not the experienced betters; Clodius offers three to one against
him!'

'Oh, Jove! how beautiful!' exclaimed the widow, as two gladiators, armed
cap-a-pie, rode round the arena on light and prancing steeds. Resembling
much the combatants in the tilts of the middle age, they bore lances and
round shields beautifully inlaid: their armor was woven intricately with
bands of iron, but it covered only the thighs and the right arms; short
cloaks, extending to the seat, gave a picturesque and graceful air to
their costume; their legs were naked, with the exception of sandals,
which were fastened a little above the ankle. 'Oh, beautiful! Who are
these?' asked the widow.

'The one is named Berbix—he has conquered twelve times; the other
assumes the arrogant name of Nobilior. They are both Gauls.'

While thus conversing, the first formalities of the show were over. To
these succeeded a feigned combat with wooden swords between the various
gladiators matched against each other. Amongst these, the skill of two
Roman gladiators, hired for the occasion, was the most admired; and next
to them the most graceful combatant was Lydon. This sham contest did
not last above an hour, nor did it attract any very lively interest,
except among those connoisseurs of the arena to whom art was preferable
to more coarse excitement; the body of the spectators were rejoiced when
it was over, and when the sympathy rose to terror. The combatants were
now arranged in pairs, as agreed beforehand; their weapons examined; and
the grave sports of the day commenced amidst the deepest silence—broken
only by an exciting and preliminary blast of warlike music.

It was often customary to begin the sports by the most cruel of all, and
some bestiarius, or gladiator appointed to the beasts, was slain first,
as an initiatory sacrifice. But in the present instance, the
experienced Pansa thought it better that the sanguinary drama should
advance, not decrease, in interest and, accordingly, the execution of
Olinthus and Glaucus was reserved for the last. It was arranged that
the two horsemen should first occupy the arena; that the foot
gladiators, paired Off, should then be loosed indiscriminately on the
stage; that Glaucus and the lion should next perform their part in the
bloody spectacle; and the tiger and the Nazarene be the grand finale.
And, in the spectacles of Pompeii, the reader of Roman history must
limit his imagination, nor expect to find those vast and wholesale
exhibitions of magnificent slaughter with which a Nero or a Caligula
regaled the inhabitants of the Imperial City. The Roman shows, which
absorbed the more celebrated gladiators, and the chief proportion of
foreign beasts, were indeed the very reason why, in the lesser towns of
the empire, the sports of the amphitheatre were comparatively humane and
rare; and in this, as in other respects, Pompeii was but the miniature,
the microcosm of Rome. Still, it was an awful and imposing spectacle,
with which modern times have, happily, nothing to compare—a vast
theatre, rising row upon row, and swarming with human beings, from
fifteen to eighteen thousand in number, intent upon no fictitious
representation—no tragedy of the stage—but the actual victory or
defeat, the exultant life or the bloody death, of each and all who
entered the arena!

The two horsemen were now at either extremity of the lists (if so they
might be called); and, at a given signal from Pansa, the combatants
started simultaneously as in full collision, each advancing his round
buckler, each poising on high his light yet sturdy javelin; but just
when within three paces of his opponent, the steed of Berbix suddenly
halted, wheeled round, and, as Nobilior was borne rapidly by, his
antagonist spurred upon him. The buckler of Nobilior, quickly and
skillfully extended, received a blow which otherwise would have been
fatal.

'Well done, Nobilior!' cried the praetor, giving the first vent to the
popular excitement.

'Bravely struck, my Berbix!' answered Clodius from his seat.

And the wild murmur, swelled by many a shout, echoed from side to side.

The vizors of both the horsemen were completely closed (like those of
the knights in after times), but the head was, nevertheless, the great
point of assault; and Nobilior, now wheeling his charger with no less
adroitness than his opponent, directed his spear full on the helmet of
his foe. Berbix raised his buckler to shield himself, and his
quick-eyed antagonist, suddenly lowering his weapon, pierced him through
the breast. Berbix reeled and fell.

'Nobilior! Nobilior!' shouted the populace.

'I have lost ten sestertia,' said Clodius, between his teeth.

'Habet!—he has it,' said Pansa, deliberately.

The populace, not yet hardened into cruelty, made the signal of mercy;
but as the attendants of the arena approached, they found the kindness
came too late—the heart of the Gaul had been pierced, and his eyes were
set in death. It was his life's blood that flowed so darkly over the
sand and sawdust of the arena.

'It is a pity it was so soon over—there was little enough for one's
trouble,' said the widow Fulvia.

'Yes—I have no compassion for Berbix. Any one might have seen that
Nobilior did but feint. Mark, they fix the fatal hook to the body—they
drag him away to the spoliarium—they scatter new sand over the stage!
Pansa regrets nothing more than that he is not rich enough to strew the
arena with borax and cinnabar, as Nero used to do.'

'Well, if it has been a brief battle, it is quickly succeeded. See my
handsome Lydon on the arena—ay—and the net-bearer too, and the
swordsmen! oh, charming!'

There were now on the arena six combatants: Niger and his net, matched
against Sporus with his shield and his short broadsword; Lydon and
Tetraides, naked save by a cincture round the waist, each armed only
with a heavy Greek cestus—and two gladiators from Rome, clad in
complete steel, and evenly matched with immense bucklers and pointed
swords.

The initiatory contest between Lydon and Tetraides being less deadly
than that between the other combatants, no sooner had they advanced to
the middle of the arena than, as by common consent, the rest held back,
to see how that contest should be decided, and wait till fiercer weapons
might replace the cestus, ere they themselves commenced hostilities.
They stood leaning on their arms and apart from each other, gazing on
the show, which, if not bloody enough, thoroughly to please the
populace, they were still inclined to admire, because its origin was of
their ancestral Greece.

No person could, at first glance, have seemed less evenly matched than
the two antagonists. Tetraides, though not taller than Lydon, weighed
considerably more; the natural size of his muscles was increased, to the
eyes of the vulgar, by masses of solid flesh; for, as it was a notion
that the contest of the cestus fared easiest with him who was plumpest,
Tetraides had encouraged to the utmost his hereditary predisposition to
the portly. His shoulders were vast, and his lower limbs thick-set,
double-jointed, and slightly curved outward, in that formation which
takes so much from beauty to give so largely to strength. But Lydon,
except that he was slender even almost to meagreness, was beautifully
and delicately proportioned; and the skilful might have perceived that,
with much less compass of muscle than his foe, that which he had was
more seasoned—iron and compact. In proportion, too, as he wanted
flesh, he was likely to possess activity; and a haughty smile on his
resolute face which strongly contrasted the solid heaviness of his
enemy's, gave assurance to those who beheld it, and united their hope to
their pity: so that, despite the disparity of their seeming strength,
the cry of the multitude was nearly as loud for Lydon as for Tetraides.

Whoever is acquainted with the modern prize-ring—whoever has witnessed
the heavy and disabling strokes which the human fist, skillfully
directed, hath the power to bestow—may easily understand how much that
happy facility would be increased by a band carried by thongs of leather
round the arm as high as the elbow, and terribly strengthened about the
knuckles by a plate of iron, and sometimes a plummet of lead. Yet this,
which was meant to increase, perhaps rather diminished, the interest of
the fray: for it necessarily shortened its duration. A very few blows,
successfully and scientifically planted, might suffice to bring the
contest to a close; and the battle did not, therefore, often allow full
scope for the energy, fortitude and dogged perseverance, that we
technically style pluck, which not unusually wins the day against
superior science, and which heightens to so painful a delight the
interest in the battle and the sympathy for the brave.

'Guard thyself!' growled Tetraides, moving nearer and nearer to his foe,
who rather shifted round him than receded.

Lydon did not answer, save by a scornful glance of his quick, vigilant
eye. Tetraides struck—it was as the blow of a smith on a vice; Lydon
sank suddenly on one knee—the blow passed over his head. Not so
harmless was Lydon's retaliation: he quickly sprung to his feet, and
aimed his cestus full on the broad breast of his antagonist. Tetraides
reeled—the populace shouted.

'You are unlucky to-day,' said Lepidus to Clodius: 'you have lost one
bet——you will lose another.'

'By the gods! my bronzes go to the auctioneer if that is the case. I
have no less than a hundred sestertia upon Tetraides. Ha, ha! see how
he rallies! That was a home stroke: he has cut open Lydon's shoulder. A
Tetraides!—a Tetraides!'

'But Lydon is not disheartened. By Pollux! how well he keeps his
temper. See how dexterously he avoids those hammer-like hands!—dodging
now here, now there—circling round and round. Ah, poor Lydon! he has
it again.'

'Three to one still on Tetraides! What say you, Lepidus?'

'Well, nine sestertia to three—be it so! What! again, Lydon? He
stops—he gasps for breath. By the gods, he is down. No—he is again
on his legs. Brave Lydon! Tetraides is encouraged—he laughs loud—he
rushes on him.'

'Fool—success blinds him—he should be cautious. Lydon's eye is like
the lynx's,' said Clodius, between his teeth.

'Earth revives him, then. He is once more up; but the blood rolls down
his face.'

'By the thunderer! Lydon wins it. See how he presses on him! That blow
on the temple would have crushed an ox! it has crushed Tetraides. He
falls again—he cannot move—habet!—habet!'

'Habet!' repeated Pansa. 'Take them out and give them the armor and
swords.'

'Noble editor,' said the officers, 'we fear that Tetraides will not
recover in time; howbeit, we will try.'

'Do so.'

In a few minutes the officers, who had dragged off the stunned and
insensible gladiator, returned with rueful countenances. They feared
for his life; he was utterly incapacitated from re-entering the arena.

'In that case,' said Pansa, 'hold Lydon a subdititius; and the first
gladiator that is vanquished, let Lydon supply his place with the
victor.' The people shouted their applause at this sentence: then they
again sunk into deep silence. The trumpet sounded loudly. The four
combatants stood each against each in prepared and stern array.

'Dost thou recognize the Romans, my Clodius; are they among the
celebrated, or are they merely ordinary?'

'Eumolpus is a good second-rate swordsman, my Lepidus. Nepimus, the
lesser man, I have never seen before: but he is the son of one of the
imperial fiscales, and brought up in a proper school; doubtless they
will show sport, but I have no heart for the game; I cannot win back my
money—I am undone. Curses on that Lydon! who could have supposed he was
so dexterous or so lucky?'

'Well, Clodius, shall I take compassion on you, and accept your own
terms with these Romans?'

'An even ten sestertia on Eumolpus, then?'

'What! when Nepimus is untried? Nay, nay; that is to bad.'

'Well—ten to eight?'

'Agreed.'

While the contest in the amphitheatre had thus commenced, there was one
in the loftier benches for whom it had assumed, indeed, a poignant—a
stifling interest. The aged father of Lydon, despite his Christian
horror of the spectacle, in his agonized anxiety for his son, had not
been able to resist being the spectator of his fate. One amidst a fierce
crowd of strangers—the lowest rabble of the populace—the old man saw,
felt nothing, but the form—the presence of his brave son! Not a sound
had escaped his lips when twice he had seen him fall to the earth—only
he had turned paler, and his limbs trembled. But he had uttered one low
cry when he saw him victorious; unconscious, alas! of the more fearful
battle to which that victory was but a prelude.

'My gallant boy!' said he, and wiped his eyes.

'Is he thy son said a brawny fellow to the right of the Nazarene; 'he
has fought well: let us see how he does by-and-by. Hark! he is to fight
the first victor. Now, old boy, pray the gods that that victor be
neither of the Romans! nor, next to them, the giant Niger.'

The old man sat down again and covered his face. The fray for the
moment was indifferent to him—Lydon was not one of the combatants.
Yet—yet—the thought flashed across him—the fray was indeed of deadly
interest—the first who fell was to make way for Lydon! He started, and
bent down, with straining eyes and clasped hands, to view the encounter.

The first interest was attracted towards the combat of Niger with
Sporus; for this species of contest, from the fatal result which usually
attended it, and from the great science it required in either
antagonist, was always peculiarly inviting to the spectators.

They stood at a considerable distance from each other. The singular
helmet which Sporus wore (the vizor of which was down) concealed his
face; but the features of Niger attracted a fearful and universal
interest from their compressed and vigilant ferocity. Thus they stood
for some moments, each eyeing each, until Sporus began slowly, and with
great caution, to advance, holding his sword pointed, like a modern
fencer's, at the breast of his foe. Niger retreated as his antagonist
advanced, gathering up his net with his right hand, and never taking his
small glittering eye from the movements of the swordsman. Suddenly when
Sporus had approached nearly at arm's length, the retiarius threw
himself forward, and cast his net. A quick inflection of body saved the
gladiator from the deadly snare! he uttered a sharp cry of joy and rage,
and rushed upon Niger: but Niger had already drawn in his net, thrown it
across his shoulders, and now fled round the lists with a swiftness
which the secutor in vain endeavored to equal. The people laughed and
shouted aloud, to see the ineffectual efforts of the broad-shouldered
gladiator to overtake the flying giant: when, at that moment, their
attention was turned from these to the two Roman combatants.

They had placed themselves at the onset face to face, at the distance of
modern fencers from each other: but the extreme caution which both
evinced at first had prevented any warmth of engagement, and allowed the
spectators full leisure to interest themselves in the battle between
Sporus and his foe. But the Romans were now heated into full and fierce
encounter: they pushed—returned—advanced on—retreated from each other
with all that careful yet scarcely perceptible caution which
characterizes men well experienced and equally matched. But at this
moment, Eumolpus, the elder gladiator, by that dexterous back-stroke
which was considered in the arena so difficult to avoid, had wounded
Nepimus in the side. The people shouted; Lepidus turned pale.

'Ho!' said Clodius, 'the game is nearly over. If Eumolpus fights now
the quiet fight, the other will gradually bleed himself away.'

'But, thank the gods! he does not fight the backward fight. See!—he
presses hard upon Nepimus. By Mars! but Nepimus had him there! the
helmet rang again!—Clodius, I shall win!'

'Why do I ever bet but at the dice?' groaned Clodius to himself;—or why
cannot one cog a gladiator?'

'A Sporus!—a Sporus!' shouted the populace, as Niger having now
suddenly paused, had again cast his net, and again unsuccessfully. He
had not retreated this time with sufficient agility—the sword of Sporus
had inflicted a severe wound upon his right leg; and, incapacitated to
fly, he was pressed hard by the fierce swordsman. His great height and
length of arm still continued, however, to give him no despicable
advantages; and steadily keeping his trident at the front of his foe, he
repelled him successfully for several minutes. Sporus now tried, by
great rapidity of evolution, to get round his antagonist, who
necessarily moved with pain and slowness. In so doing, he lost his
caution—he advanced too near to the giant—raised his arm to strike,
and received the three points of the fatal spear full in his breast! He
sank on his knee. In a moment more, the deadly net was cast over him,
he struggled against its meshes in vain; again—again—again he writhed
mutely beneath the fresh strokes of the trident—his blood flowed fast
through the net and redly over the sand. He lowered his arms in
acknowledgment of defeat.

The conquering retiarius withdrew his net, and leaning on his spear,
looked to the audience for their judgement. Slowly, too, at the same
moment, the vanquished gladiator rolled his dim and despairing eyes
around the theatre. From row to row, from bench to bench, there glared
upon him but merciless and unpitying eyes.

Hushed was the roar—the murmur! The silence was dread, for it was no
sympathy; not a hand—no, not even a woman's hand—gave the signal of
charity and life! Sporus had never been popular in the arena; and,
lately, the interest of the combat had been excited on behalf of the
wounded Niger. The people were warmed into blood—the mimic fight had
ceased to charm; the interest had mounted up to the desire of sacrifice
and the thirst of death!

The gladiator felt that his doom was sealed: he uttered no prayer—no
groan. The people gave the signal of death! In dogged but agonized
submission, he bent his neck to receive the fatal stroke. And now, as
the spear of the retiarius was not a weapon to inflict instant and
certain death, there stalked into the arena a grim and fatal form,
brandishing a short, sharp sword, and with features utterly concealed
beneath its vizor. With slow and measured steps, this dismal headsman
approached the gladiator, still kneeling—laid the left hand on his
humbled crest—drew the edge of the blade across his neck—turned round
to the assembly, lest, in the last moment, remorse should come upon
them; the dread signal continued the same: the blade glittered brightly
in the air—fell—and the gladiator rolled upon the sand; his limbs
quivered—were still—he was a corpse.'

His body was dragged at once from the arena through the gate of death,
and thrown into the gloomy den termed technically the spoliarium. And
ere it had well reached that destination, the strife between the
remaining combatants was decided. The sword of Eumolpus had inflicted
the death-wound upon the less experienced combatant. A new victim was
added to the receptacle of the slain.

Throughout that mighty assembly there now ran a universal movement; the
people breathed more freely, and resettled themselves in their seats. A
grateful shower was cast over every row from the concealed conduits. In
cool and luxurious pleasure they talked over the late spectacle of
blood. Eumolpus removed his helmet, and wiped his brows; his
close-curled hair and short beard, his noble Roman features and bright
dark eye attracted the general admiration. He was fresh, unwounded,
unfatigued.

The editor paused, and proclaimed aloud that, as Niger's wound disabled
him from again entering the arena, Lydon was to be the successor to the
slaughtered Nepimus, and the new combatant of Eumolpus.

'Yet, Lydon,' added he, 'if thou wouldst decline the combat with one so
brave and tried, thou mayst have full liberty to do so. Eumolpus is not
the antagonist that was originally decreed for thee. Thou knowest best
how far thou canst cope with him. If thou failest, thy doom is
honorable death; if thou conquerest, out of my own purse I will double
the stipulated prize.'

The people shouted applause. Lydon stood in the lists, he gazed around;
high above he beheld the pale face, the straining eyes, of his father.
He turned away irresolute for a moment. No! the conquest of the cestus
was not sufficient—he had not yet won the prize of victory—his father
was still a slave!

'Noble aedile!' he replied, in a firm and deep tone, 'I shrink not from
this combat. For the honour of Pompeii, I demand that one trained by
its long-celebrated lanista shall do battle with this Roman.'

The people shouted louder than before.

'Four to one against Lydon!' said Clodius to Lepidus.

'I would not take twenty to one! Why, Eumolpus is a very Achilles, and
this poor fellow is but a tyro!'

Eumolpus gazed hard on the face of Lydon; he smiled; yet the smile was
followed by a slight and scarce audible sigh—a touch of compassionate
emotion, which custom conquered the moment the heart acknowledged it.

And now both, clad in complete armor, the sword drawn, the vizor closed,
the two last combatants of the arena (ere man, at least, was matched
with beast), stood opposed to each other.

It was just at this time that a letter was delivered to the proctor by
one of the attendants of the arena; he removed the cincture—glanced
over it for a moment—his countenance betrayed surprise and
embarrassment. He re-read the letter, and then muttering—'Tush! it is
impossible!—the man must be drunk, even in the morning, to dream of
such follies!'—threw it carelessly aside, and gravely settled himself
once more in the attitude of attention to the sports.

The interest of the public was wound up very high. Eumolpus had at
first won their favor; but the gallantry of Lydon, and his well-timed
allusion to the honour of the Pompeian lanista, had afterwards given the
latter the preference in their eyes.

'Holla, old fellow!' said Medon's neighbor to him. 'Your son is hardly
matched; but never fear, the editor will not permit him to be slain—no,
nor the people neither; he has behaved too bravely for that. Ha! that
was a home thrust!—well averted, by Pollux! At him again, Lydon!—they
stop to breathe. What art thou muttering, old boy

'Prayers!' answered Medon, with a more calm and hopeful mien than he had
yet maintained.

'Prayers!—trifles! The time for gods to carry a man away in a cloud is
gone now. Ha! Jupiter! what a blow! Thy side—thy side!—take care of
thy side, Lydon!'

There was a convulsive tremor throughout the assembly. A fierce blow
from Eumolpus, full on the crest, had brought Lydon to his knee.

'Habet!—he has it!' cried a shrill female voice; 'he has it!' It was
the voice of the girl who had so anxiously anticipated the sacrifice of
some criminal to the beasts.

'Be silent, child!' said the wife of Pansa, haughtily. 'Non habet!—he
is not wounded!'

'I wish he were, if only to spite old surly Medon,' muttered the girl.

Meanwhile Lydon, who had hitherto defended himself with great skill and
valor, began to give way before the vigorous assaults of the practised
Roman; his arm grew tired, his eye dizzy, he breathed hard and
painfully. The combatants paused again for breath.

'Young man,' said Eumolpus, in a low voice, 'desist; I will wound thee
slightly—then lower thy arms; thou hast propitiated the editor and the
mob—thou wilt be honorably saved!'

'And my father still enslaved!' groaned Lydon to himself. 'No! death or
his freedom.'

At that thought, and seeing that, his strength not being equal to the
endurance of the Roman, everything depended on a sudden and desperate
effort, he threw himself fiercely on Eumolpus; the Roman warily
retreated—Lydon thrust again—Eumolpus drew himself aside—the sword
grazed his cuirass—Lydon's breast was exposed—the Roman plunged his
sword through the joints of the armor, not meaning, however, to inflict
a deep wound; Lydon, weak and exhausted, fell forward, fell right on the
point: it passed through and through, even to the back. Eumolpus drew
forth his blade; Lydon still made an effort to regain his balance—his
sword left his grasp—he struck mechanically at the gladiator with his
naked hand, and fell prostrate on the arena. With one accord, editor
and assembly made the signal of mercy—the officers of the arena
approached—they took off the helmet of the vanquished. He still
breathed; his eyes rolled fiercely on his foe; the savageness he had
acquired in his calling glared from his gaze, and lowered upon the brow
darkened already with the shades of death; then, with a convulsive
groan, with a half start, he lifted his eyes above. They rested not on
the face of the editor nor on the pitying brows of his relenting judges.
He saw them not; they were as if the vast space was desolate and bare;
one pale agonizing face alone was all he recognized—one cry of a broken
heart was all that, amidst the murmurs and the shouts of the populace,
reached his ear. The ferocity vanished from his brow; a soft, a tender
expression of sanctifying but despairing love played over his
features—played—waned—darkened! His face suddenly became locked and
rigid, resuming its former fierceness. He fell upon the earth.

'Look to him,' said the aedile; 'he has done his duty!'

The officers dragged him off to the spoliarium.

'A true type of glory, and of its fate!' murmured Arbaces to himself,
and his eye, glancing round the amphitheatre, betrayed so much of
disdain and scorn, that whoever encountered it felt his breath suddenly
arrested, and his emotions frozen into one sensation of abasement and of
awe.

Again rich perfumes were wafted around the theatre; the attendants
sprinkled fresh sand over the arena.

'Bring forth the lion and Glaucus the Athenian,' said the editor.

And a deep and breathless hush of overwrought interest, and intense
(yet, strange to say, not unpleasing) terror lay, like a mighty and
awful dream, over the assembly.